Soldier, Soldier
by FizzingWhizzbee204
Summary: John Watson is still grieving over Sherlock despite his up-coming marriage to Mary Morstan. He's having a bad day, is it about to get worse or better? It might be Johnlock... Post-Reichenbach


Dr Watson was having a bad day, and he was letting the whole world know it too. On his way home from the hospital he had scowled at anyone who had caught his eye, and he had snapped ferociously at a woman who tried to give him a home insurance leaflet. But in his mind he had good reason for being a little touchy.

He had got a really bad nights sleep and then had overslept! This had left him no time for breakfast and so he had, after a panicked start, arrived at Bart's on empty stomach. The patients he had attended to that morning and not helped, and the abundance of irritating people was unbelievable, to say the least. However, he had powered through with the help of the coffee Sarah had given him around 11 o'clock; the first thing he had ingested that day. Lunch had been lousy and on his way back home he had been accosted by a home insurance seller no less!

John snorted as he entered his and Sherlock's flat: 221b, and he automatically glanced at the chair which Sherlock usually adorned. But as he did so he felt the ache in his heart convert into a sharp pang to of grief. He angrily brushed away the tears which had sprung to his eyes and he mentally reproached himself.

John Hamish Watson stop it! Sherlock fell two years ago, you must stop coming apart like this! Stop it, stop looking at the goddamned chair and think of something else!

He cast his mind onto other matters, and as it normally did nowadays it settled on his fiancée, Mary. That was something to be happy about, he was engaged! John's features softened into a small smile as he remembered the evening he had proposed to her, her smile, her dress, her delight when he produced the ring... With Mary filling his mind like a big soft comfort blanket and a smile playing upon his lips, he continued through to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Nevertheless the ache in his heart had not gone, it would probably never go.

How could anyone ever come close to replacing Sherlock Holmes? Brilliant, mad, perfect Sherlock...

John was brought out of his reverie by the click that signalled the water had boiled and John was reaching for the handle of the kettle when he heard a hesitant knock at the door. "Must be Mary," John muttered as his smile broadened, and he quickly snatched another mug from the cabinet above him.

"Come in!" He called as he finished making the two cups of tea.

The step that entered the flat, however, was not Mary's quick, light, firm tread. This person stepped lightly but it was more elegant aloofness than caring delicacy... John froze and bit his lip, a thousand thoughts running through his head as he slowly turned around...

"Hello John."

"Oh my God!"

John swallowed in an attempt to dispel the hoarse tone of his voice.

"Sherlock!"

John rushed up to the man who had just closed the flat door and grasped his arms, as if to make sure he wasn't a figment of his imagination. Sherlock flinched at the touch and would not meet John's eyes but looked around at the living room and the kitchen and the state of them both, the evidence of the broken life John had been living. If you could call it living.

But when Sherlock eventually met John's eyes, John could only describe his expression as a searching stare, trying to understand, to deduce him.

Seeing this calm deduction of his grief angered John more than he could ever describe and a fire sprang up in his eyes and suddenly, John raised his right arm and punched Sherlock, right on his (elegant) mouth. But as John raised his arm to strike that (gorgeous) mouth again he looked at Sherlock and instead of shock or anger, his features assumed a kind of accepting expression. This change of attitude stayed John's hand for a moment.

The fire in his eyes died as the tears trickled down his face. His hand which was still aloft, pulled Sherlock into a hug and John began to sob aloud.

"Oh God Sherlock, I'm so sorry! I'm so so sorry!"

He continued to sob as Sherlock gently returned John's embrace and his smile had a tinge of bitterness in it.

"Don't be sorry John, I know I deserved it."

Hearing the tremor and break in Sherlock's voice, John pulled away slightly so he could see Sherlock's face. He was shocked by what he saw. Sherlock was crying! Sherlock, who had called emotions a 'chemical defect', Sherlock, who had been 'reliably informed' he didn't have a heart... Sherlock, who was, even now, standing in front of him with tears in his eyes, and yet more tears trickling down his cheek.

John continued to stare at Sherlock. He stared at his perfect cupid bow mouth, stained a darker red that usual as the blood trickled down his lips, he stared at his gorgeous cheekbones so sharp, they looked as if they could cut glass, he looked into his keen, dark yet electric eyes which were staring into John's with such intensity he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. His gaze hurriedly moved up to Sherlock's dark, curly hair, the light glancing off his locks and making his hair shimmer, so it seemed as if he had a halo.

Sherlock was beautiful. John had decided that long ago, but he had never seemed as beautiful as he did now. With his pale, flawless skin, his dark hair and his (literally) blood red lips, he was unable to say whether he looked more like Snow White or a vampire.

"Gorgeous," John breathed, and then gasped when he realised he had spoken out loud. Sherlock smirked and John felt his face heat up. "Am I?" Sherlock whispered as his head steadily moved closer until their faces were centimetres apart. "Oh God yes!" And with that John closed the gap. Sherlock tasted sweet but bitter. A good reflection of his personality John thought. The bitter taste of cigarettes mingled with a sweet taste, making it evident he had not abandoned his usual tea habits. Don't think, just drown! John told himself. And he did, losing himself in Sherlock, it felt so natural. John closed his eyes and let the tears stream down his face, just as the tears streamed down Sherlock's. They drew apart, still locked in each other's gaze.

"Sherlock, have you ever heard the nursery rhyme: Soldier, Soldier?"

A nod of his head. Some of the old fire returned to his eyes.

"I believe its position in my mind palace is in the locker marked: 'utterly useless child gabble'." John rolled his eyes, as Sherlock closed his and recited:

"Oh Soldier, Soldier, won't you marry me? With your musket, fife and drum?"

As Sherlock paused John took a shallow breath.

"Oh no sweet maid I cannot marry thee, for I have... a wife of my own." John finished.

Sherlock opened his eyes.


End file.
